Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Rusted. Share them with your friends on social media platforms like Facebook, Twitter, or your personal blogs, and let the world be inspired by their powerful messages. Here are the Top 100 Rusted Quotes And Sayings by 93 Authors including Anonymous,Anthony Doerr,Muhammad,Shania Twain,Alan Bradley for you to enjoy and share.
Removing Rust on Kitchen Items Items such as cutlery, knives will once in a while rust when left under damp conditions. To get rid of the rust, take a potato, cut it into half, then apply baking soda in the exposed part, and scrub on the rusty surface of the knife. This will
A foot of steel looks as if it has been transformed into warm butter and gouged by the fingers of a child,
There is a polish for everything that takes away rust, and the polish for the heart is the remembrance of God.
If foundations made of stone can turn to dust, then the hardest hearts of steel can turn to rust.
But when oxidation nibbles more slowly - more delicately, like a tortoise - at the world around us, without a flame, we call it rust and we sometimes scarcely notice as it goes about its business consuming everything from hairpins to whole civilizations.
We must all either wear out or rust out, every one of us. My choice is to wear out.
Christmas always rustled. It rustled every time, mysteriously, with silver and gold paper, tissue paper and a rich abundance of shiny paper, decorating and hiding everything and giving a feeling of reckless extravagance.
Cracked. The tub was as old as God and pitted. There
My skin has turned to porcelain, to ivory, to steel.
On the shelves along the wall my stacks. Jumbled and worn. Pagers curled and stained. Spines creased and cracked.
The tree leaves rustled like that noise e-books make when you turn the page.
the ruin insufficiently ruined,
Most people rust out due to lack of challenge. Few people rust out due to overuse.
I were better to be eaten to death with a rust than to be scoured to nothing with perpetual motion.
the skin like velvet over steel,
Iron turns red when it corrodes, and copper turns green. Meat turns to maggots, and thoughts turn to speech.
I have legs of iron, but to tell you the truth, they're starting to rust and buckle a bit.
This world is painted on a wild dark metal
The fact that iron rusts so readily is one of the great lousy breaks of chemistry, responsible for untold billions in costs every year.
The sun is rising, a rusty color, the color of old blood, and I'm so
A wilderness of gilt, gleaming in the slant from the dust-furred windows: gilded cupids, gilded commodes and torchieres, and
undercutting the old-wood smell
the reek of turpentine, oil paint, and varnish.
The knife had done almost everything it was brought to that house to do, and both the blade and the handle were wet.
Rust may never sleep, but then, neither does moss.
The slick concrete reflected the facades of the work weary - grey, cracked and old,
but more importantly, trodden upon.
...bleached by darkness
Wer rastet, rostet - what rests, rusts.
He was bald-headed except for a little fringe of rust-colored hair and his face was nearly the same color as the unpaved roads and washed like them with ruts and gullys.
The iron ring is worn out by constant use.
[Lat., Ferreus assiduo consumitur anulus usu.]
I Still Have Everything You Gave Me
It is dusty on the edges.
It is slightly rotten.
I guard it without thinking.
I focus on it once a year
when I shake it out in the wind.
I do not ache.
I would not trade.
I might have preferred iron, but bronze will do. It won't rust. And, this time I hope, the head will stay on.
The Rusty Ruins were the remains of an old city, a hulking reminder of back when there'd been way too many people, and everyone was incredibly stupid. And ugly.
Crack'd in pieces by malignant Death.
Her halo was never gold, or it couldn't have rusted so completely.
I would rather burn out than rust out.
open, hinges broken, wood shards raining all around
A weathered skeleton
in windy fields of memory,
piercing like a knife.
Gold wrapped old crap.
Water stains like liver spots dotted the floors, ceiling, and walls while the smell of warm wood rot hung in the air thick like an old whore's perfume.
The terminals were so corroded it looked like some kind of alien had taken a dump on the battery and then decided to play with it.
pickled in formaldehyde and painted like a whore, / Shrimp-pink incorruptible, not lost or gone before.
A pattern of raised crisscrossed scars, some old and white, others more recent in various shades of pink and red. Exposing the stress of the structure underneath its paint
very dull object.
Unleavened Bread, all
No man can stand still; the moment progress is not made, retrogression begins. If the blade is not kept sharp and bright, the law of rust will assert its claim.
It sheared off heads so many, that it, and the ground it most polluted, were a rotten red. It was taken to pieces, like a toy-puzzle for a young Devil, and was put together again when the occasion wanted it.
The floor is solid metal in some places and metal grating in others. Everything smells like rotting garbage and fire.
"Don't say I never took you anywhere nice," Peter says.
"Wouldn't dream of it," I say.
You're pale and you're cold, and you reek like steel.
Dust coated the long-dark light fixtures on the ceiling, at least half of them busted, jagged glass screwed into rusty holes.
It was a flaking scab on a fleshy field of neglect.
The perfection of rottenness.
Most of the matchbooks and little boxes were made of paper, and even if the matches dried out, the containers were split, torn, and shriveled. The damp cardboard dripped with water, discolored and broken.
The walls are cracked and water runs upon them within threads without sound, black and glistening as blood.
Seeped into his bones from decades of sitting outdoors in
A toast to the weapons of war, may they rust in peace.
Faded like morning fog in the rising sun, sports team logo on a cheap T-shirt, ninety-nine dollar paint job on a Chevy.
A pile of timber, remains of either a house or a ship, huddled like a frightened child, cradling a glint of metal in
Completely dried up, They've become beans.
Mortification. I'm draped in it. Painted in it. Buried in it.
Metallic trees. That's new. If you see any steel dryads, be sure to tell me so I can run away screaming.
My mind is led astray by every faint rustle.
Worn old shoes need a good cobbler to be repaired; but worn old thoughts, only a rubbish bin!
Weeded and worn the ancient thatch Upon the lonely moated grange.
I stared out of the window, at my Bronco rusting in the parking lot, the metal eager to get back to just being dirt. Life was probably easier for it back then.
If gold rust, what then will iron do?/ For if a priest be foul in whom we trust/ No wonder that a common man should rust ...
The days and nights come apart. I feel them corroding at the seams.
Foul cankering rust the hidden treasure frets, but gold that's put to use more gold begets.
Seek the tarnish and you shall find
I'm falling into disrepair
The rust of the mind is the destruction of genius.
For though my rhyme be ragged,
Tattered and jagged,
Rudely rain-beaten,
Rusty and moth-eaten,
If ye take well therewith,
It hath in it some pith.
The only thing that held it together the previous summer was baling wire, cheap used parts, and cussin' that would fry the hair out of a frog's nostrils.
Waiting is the rust of the soul.
The whole worl's in a state o' chassis.
There was a lesson here, he realized, not a shining thing but something that was old and rusty and misshapen. It
inert and seemingly lifeless.
Sieges weathered.
It looks more like a rotting pumpkin.
To him who is afraid, everything rustles.
Cool down, man. I have a corroded piece of metal and I'm not afraid to use it.
The ship was old, patched and ramshackle, as if repairs were done on the hop with whatever materials could be scavenged.
We didn't have sense enough to take care of it. Now it's torn. And the artist is dead.
with a seeping glitter of dark blood,
My legs, arms, torso, underarms, and parts of my eyebrows have been stripped of the stuff, leaving me like a plucked bird, ready for roasting.
The place smelled of mildew and rot. What
You do have an eye for the tarnished lining.
Its wounds are as fresh as the wounds of the men who carved
Everything had a battered, trampled-on look, as though the place had just been visited by some large violent animal.
Its surface sheened with saft that evaporated out from its crystal shielding in threads that degraded to nothing.
A face that looked like it had been whittled out of driftwood.
Steel is prince or pauper.
was a bird. A bird struggling through stickiness: a bird coated in paint, floundering in its nest, splashing color everywhere. Red. Red. Red. Dozens of them: black feathers coated thickly with crimson-colored paint, fluttering among the branches. Red
Wrecked on the lee shore of age.
The freshness of an unworn garment in her hands couldn't extinguish the feeling that she was a damaged, hole-ridden item, thrown to the back of a closet to be forgotten.
Everything took on the color of blood.
A lean cheek, - a blue eye, and sunken, - an unquestionable spirit, - a beard neglected:- Then your hose should be ungartered, your bonnet unhanded, your sleeve unbuttoned, your shoe untied, and every thing about you demonstrating a careless desolation.
Shiny like new zinc holding up a roof or a fence right beside old zinc, the material itself a living history of when last the politician did the ghetto a favor.
A rock was sticking out of the water, jagged and pointed, covered with moss
a remnant of the Ice Age. It had withstood the rains, the snows, the frost, the heat. It was afraid of no one. It did not need redemption, it had already been redeemed.
When it comes to staying tuned: if you rest, you rust.
Keep up your bright swords, for the dew will rust them.
Dirty, stained, withered, broken things seem beautiful to me.